


the attention of Time

by Dialux



Series: the memory of things becomes the reality of things [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousins With Too Much Trauma And Blood Between Them, Family Reunions, Gen, Quasi-Arguments Between Reconciled Family Members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: He bites his lip, remembering all those times that Findis had let him and Aegnor escape out of the house, eyes affixed deliberately to the flute in her hands instead of the windows. “Believe me, if she can get along with Fëanor’s sons, she’ll love you.”“I resent that,” says Maglor placidly.[Elrond doesn't know what to make of Findis. Angrod tries to reassure him, Maglor is as creepy as a six thousand year old hermit should be, and Findis is... herself.]
Relationships: Angrod | Angaráto & Elrond Peredhel, Angrod | Angaráto & Findis (Tolkien), Elrond Peredhel & Findis (Tolkien), Maglor | Makalaurë & Findis (Tolkien)
Series: the memory of things becomes the reality of things [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104989
Kudos: 39





	the attention of Time

When she and her- largely insane- family finally make their way inside, Findis goes about greeting everyone.

Elrond watches her with a strange look on his face. Angrod thinks his expression’s a bit impressed, and also a bit wary, and also the slightest bit intimidated.  _ Well it might be,  _ he thinks, taking a cup of wine and draining half of it at once.  _ Like Aunt Findis has made anyone feel anything else! _

And the distance of thousands of years-  _ thousands  _ of years- seems to drop away with her in the room: she’s making an effort to speak to each of them, at least a sentence if not more, and like always Findis manages to find some common ground to discuss things, even if she’s never even met the person involved before.

The face that Elrond pulls when she starts discussing falconry with Gil-Galad almost makes Angrod laugh.

“She’s not that bad,” he says.

Elrond’s face smooths out immediately. “Of course not,” he agrees. “She’s my… great-great aunt- well, blood, at the least. Kin. But she’s very-”

“-frightening?”

“Mysterious,” he says firmly.

“She likes looking that way,” Angrod tells him. “But there isn’t much to her that you couldn’t imagine: she’s very sharp, and she’s very smart, but she’s also not our parents.” He bites his lip, remembering all those times that Findis had let him and Aegnor escape out of the house, eyes affixed deliberately to the flute in her hands instead of the windows. “Believe me, if she can get along with Fëanor’s sons, she’ll love you.”

“I resent that,” says Maglor placidly.

Angrod fights back the urge to swear loudly at the abrupt appearance; he’s already jumped into the air and slopped wine over his shirt, so it’s not like he has that much dignity to lose, but like hell’s he going to go for broke in front of the younger members of the family. “Mag _ lor,”  _ he hisses.

“I resent it,” repeats Maglor, lifting an eyebrow at Elrond, “but that doesn’t mean Ango is wrong.”

The nickname grates through the air, in the manner it does only when a Songmaster puts some effort into it, and Angrod grits his teeth to keep from shouting at Maglor. For all that Fëanor’s sons were much improved, the words certainly didn’t imply that they were improved enough for  _ company.  _ Angrod, sometimes, wonders why his family’s insane enough to want the worst of them back- their leader, their king, their father and their guiding star.

“That is enough,” says Lalwen, and there are twin, shining blades in her hands that almost blind Angrod. Her eyes are very hard, and glimmer like stones through a bubbling river, but her posture is remarkably calm despite it. “Maglor. Did you not promise to behave?”

“So did Angrod,” Maglor points out, and then Findis is there.

She’s still wearing those ragged, patchy clothes, and her expression might be amused on another person; someone who hasn’t spent the past six thousand years hiding, and mourning, and alone. As it is, Angrod doesn’t really know what to say.

Maglor, as always, doesn’t have that problem. “Aunt Findis,” he says, bowing elaborately. “I am glad beyond all words to see you again!”

“I ought to pinch your ears until they bleed, Makalaurë,” says Findis, and then she reaches out and embraces him. Her eyes flick over Angrod and Elrond, and she lifts an eyebrow, stepping away from Maglor. “And who are you?”

“Elrond, my lady,” he says. “Son of Eärendil and Elwing.”

“Itarillë’s son,” says Findis shrewdly. She steps forward and draws him up, studying his face closely. “Well, I can see Itarille in you, certainly: that nose never does go anywhere, does it? And your hair’s dark enough to make you look Noldo from afar- though I think yours comes from someone else. It looks almost blue in this light!”

“My daughter has my hair,” says Elrond, “and there are many who named her Luthien’s heir.”

“Luthien?” Findis’ eyes narrow, but she waves a hand. “Nevermind that. I’ve time to learn all your tales later- I’ve already spoken to Celegorm and Aredhel about that. Though I hear you’re a loremaster?”

“I,” says Elrond. “Yes?”

“I’ll be bothering you about the Second and Third Ages, quite a lot over the next months,” says Findis firmly, before she turns and smacks Maglor at the top of his head. “And I’ll be asking you about the First Age,” she snaps, “so stop smiling so irritatingly.”

“Mercy!” cries Maglor, but Findis has such a grip on his arm that he cannot flee into the crowd. “Ah, Aunt Findis-”

“Makalaurë,” she says patiently, and he pauses in his complaints. “Aredhel told me whose idea it was to gather everyone for this reunion.”

Maglor pales, a little, at the glint in Findis’ eyes. Angrod fights to hide his smirk, raising his wine glass. They  _ all  _ know how badly Findis takes big crowds. But Maglor had insisted, and he’d gotten all his brothers in on the act, and that was enough of an incentive for Angrod’s father to agree to the whole thing.

“Did you like the banners?” he asks.

“I did,” says Findis, “but I would’ve preferred less fuss, I think.”

“I know,” says Maglor, in a smaller voice than Angrod’s heard from him in a very, very long time.

“I’ll take your presence by my side as weregild, then,” says Findis, and smiles, calm as a frozen lake and just as warm, and when she walks away, she does so with Maglor very quiet and pale next to her. 


End file.
